Shikira

Shikira’s down in the basement again. Hours, now. Her tiny frame folded tight, wrists and ankles taped back until her shoulders burn. Thick strips of duct tape cross her mouth, pinning her tongue flat, turning every breath into a wet, muffled rasp. Sweat slides between her tits. She can’t shift, can’t stretch; the tape bites deeper every time she tries. The only sound is the slow rip of another length being pulled from the roll and slapped across her thighs, locking her knees wider, forcing her open whether she wants it or not.